the Train Trestle

Chapter 1: the Gallery of Lost Souls

There was something odd about the painting. I simply couldn't stop staring at it.

I felt a strange sense of familiarity whenever I laid my eyes upon the beautifully painted train trestle. It was wooden, intricately designed, made to stand all types of weather. A true piece of art.

"Sweetie," a kind old woman's voice said from behind me, "I appreciate that you have an eye for art, but I would rather not have your nose touch the painting, as it is for sale. Unless, of course, you would be interested in buying it from me? I could give you a fair price."

I stepped back, embarrassed. I hadn't realized how close to the painting I was. I remembered seeing something, a minor detail, on one of the horizontal planks. I'd leaned in to see it better, but I could no longer spot it.

"Um..", I shook my head, confused, "I am sorry about that. The painting is truly mesmerizing." I smiled at the artist. "I'm afraid I can't really afford to buy a painting, and I also don't really need a painting." My voice made this sound more like a question than a statement.

She stared at my face intently for quite some time, before speaking. "You know what, I think this painting is calling for you. You can have it."

I lifted my eyebrows. "Have it? As in for free?" I couldn't believe my ears.

"Yes, you can have it". She walked over to the wall, lifted the painting away from the hook it was hanging on, and handed it over to me. I grabbed a hold of it, and thanked her profusely. With a smile on my face I walked out of the Gallery of Lost Souls, and towards my apartment. The painting would fit perfectly above the bed frame.

***

The old woman's eyes followed me until I was out of sight. She had a perplexing look on her face. Her eyes wandered around the art gallery. Only a few people were inside her gallery, admiring her paintings. Every one of them was standing very close to a specific painting, and she knew that soon she'd have to go to talk to one of them. She'd probably start with the young girl, who was intently staring at a painting of a bottle of pills. The young children were the hardest customers.

Before she had to approach the little girl, she had one extremely important thing to do. The painting of the train trestle was by far her most popular piece of art. Especially at this time of the year. The days were getting shorter and the nights seemed to last forever. It really took a toll on people. She walked over to the backroom, and grabbed a painting of the train trestle, identical to the one that she had just given away.

As soon as the painting was hanging on the wall in the spot dedicated to all copies of it, a bell above the door chimed and another customer stepped inside the art gallery. This time it was a well dressed man in his early forties. White collar crime would be my bet, the artist thought. The man walked straight over to the painting of the train trestle, as if it had called for him.

She could no longer procrastinate on her next task. Her own daughter had been about the same age as this one, when she passed. It happened a long time ago, but the loss of her child still stung. It probably always would sting. The old woman sighed, and walked over to the child, whose nose was almost touching the painting with the prescription pills.